


Trapped

by socomessnow (thoughtfulwishing)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Comforting John, Established Relationship, Fluff, John is a great boyfriend, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, allusions to sex, emotionally needy sherlock, not anymore though, resolved emotional issues, suggestive of virgin!sherlock, this is actually not sad at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtfulwishing/pseuds/socomessnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks that he and John should break up, so John must coax him back to rationality. John's POV, first person present tense. Pure unapologetic fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring my favorite: sadgaybaby!Sherlock. Not beta-ed/britpicked. I hope this makes you smile as much as it did me while writing it. ♡

"John, we need to break up."

I look up from my paper and it takes me a moment to register what Sherlock has just said. He's sitting at the kitchen table, looking more like he's got himself lost in his mind palace again rather than just spoken to me. I'm used to it already; we haven't been...  _together_ , I suppose—still getting used to talking about us that way, and, well, we were always "together"—for very long, and actually we're still living at Baker Street (I'm getting a bit anxious to move; I love Mrs. H, but recently she's taken to cooing at us quite a lot, and, well.)

Sherlock seems to notice I haven't responded to him and looks round. "John? Did you hear me? I said—"

I interrupt him with an incredulous snort. "Yeah, I heard you." 

I'm not looking at him anymore, but I can almost hear him furrow his brows. He exits the kitchen and sits across from me in his armchair. "I'm serious. This arrangement has been nice, I assure you, but I do think it's time to, er, move on."

Those words would shatter my heart, really they would, but the look on his face is so quizzical and uncertain that it's all I can do not to laugh. I'm lucky I've got my ego; I know the man loves me. We've even got a nice date set up for tonight. Dinner. High end restaurant, posh even. Highly recommended, of course (I've never been). I insisted we indulge.

"Sherlock, you aren't actually serious."

He looks at me gravely. "I am." Oh god. (Drama queen.) He's going to need to talk this out. Him, a conversation about  _feelings_! This relationship business has really turned him. If I'm being honest, I like this new side of him; I think it's rather cute. (I'd never say that to him—you wouldn't believe it, but he's actually quite nervous about all this. He's read several books about it. Worried he might get it wrong somehow.) (On the contrary, it's working rather well for me.) 

He continues, "Perhaps we should, er... see other people." 

Okay, I actually have to laugh out loud at that. I expect him to drop the pretense, but instead he looks positively affronted. I give him a pitying look. "Sherlock, everything was great this morning. Now you've gone all—wonky about us. What's going on?"

"I—" He sighs. "I was thinking, and I didn't want to have to explain this because you'll likely just deny it, but that's the thing—you're caught in the chokehold of love, John, it's quite literally a chemical process that impairs your foresight and all but ensures future dissatisfaction, eventually leading to either heartbreak or ambivalence, or both in separate parties, even in the closest of relationships. I've seen it all too often. I think it's advisable that we sidestep the emotional disaster and carry on as, er—friends."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do I still get to fuck you?"

He blanches. "I'm sorry?"

I let out another mirthful laugh. He hasn't reacted that way to sex in a very long time; I think I've actually coaxed him out of being alarmed by it, though it was incredibly endearing at first. The fact that he recoiled at my indelicacy tells me that he didn't actually consider the possibility of a friends-with-benefits situation. I don't know why that thought is so adorable to me. (To be fair, it  _is_ a ridiculous notion.) "Calm down, I'm joking. Really," I smile kindly at him, but he frowns. 

"I'm trying to break it off with you, and you're making  _jokes_?" 

Oh, god. He's already convinced himself that I'd take the offer. Emotional defense mechanism; it will take some time to bring him round. He really is going to need a conversation. I made an honest attempt to avoid all this, but. Here goes. God, I must love him.

I lean forward in my chair, locking in his gaze. (He's intoxicating.) "Sherlock, what on earth makes you think that I would let you break up with me just like that?"

He looks down at his lap for a moment, gathering his words. I meant to be funny, but he clearly has something he needs to say. He looks back up at me. "Look, John: I know that you're fine, that we're fine, now. But sooner or later, you're not going to be fueled by your feelings towards me anymore. I know domesticity is something you've always aspired to, but it never fully satisfies you. You eventually feel trapped by it. You get restless. So why would you want to pursue it with  _me_? Do you think me impervious to the dulling effects of homemaking? I don't want to make you feel trapped, John, don't you see? In the past it's true that I've been an escape for you, but that's precisely because you didn't associate me with domestic life. Now that that's changed, it's only a matter of time before you start becoming restless again and—"

He's talking rather fast (typical), and it's at this point that I stop hearing what he's actually saying. Sherlock is worried that I'm going to get bored and ditch him. I toss this new information around in my head. He's worried that he's too  _boring_  for me. (Worried that he isn't enough.)

I hold up my hand. "Stop." He does. I grimace; I haven't seen him like this before. "Sherlock," I begin, "I love you. Of course I love you. And yes, part of that is—chemical, or whatever, but part of it is my choice. And yours too. Now you aren't being fair when you worry that my life with you will somehow be  _less_ than what I want, what I truly want." 

He's listening. Really listening. He looks relieved that I've taken my turn to speak. I suppose telling me that he wanted to end our relationship was his way of asking if I expect to be really happy with him. I don't know if he even knew it. Oh, Sherlock. 

I go in again, determined to put this ridiculous thought out of his mind for good. "Sherlock." (His name is honey on my tongue.) I hold out my hand to him, waiting for him to take it. He looks at me wryly (we might be a lot more handsy with each other now, but we're not necessarily the type for hand-holding). I only mean this to be a physical reminder for him as he listens that I really do love him. He gives me his hand, and my thumb begins to paint circles on his palm. (Habit. Every time I touch him I can't seem to keep still.) "You are  _never_  going to bore me. I don't aspire to anything, not domesticity, not anything, not anymore. It's just you. You're the only thing I want." I take his hand in both of mine now and raise it to my mouth to kiss it, my eyes still fixed on his. "I'm not pretending. You're my best friend, and I am  _so deeply_  in love with you. I mean really, Sherlock, sometimes it scares me, this. How much I care about you. I can assure you, and I don't want you to forget this, ever:  _I will not leave you_. You are a lot of things, Sherlock Holmes, but 'boring' is not one of them. And I'm honored to have been trapped by you."

We gaze at each other for what seems like hours. I wonder what in the world could be going on in that head of his; I can't really read the look in his eyes. I wish he'd speak. 

And when he finally does speak: "But you do feel trapped?" 

I let out a little breath of laughter, trying to break free from the tension. "No, you idiot." Smiling. I'm an absolute sucker for his (albeit few) moments of weakness. Oddly, it makes things like this a bit easier, I guess, when I know he needs it. (I think he knows this about me.) "I suppose," I say carefully, "I used to need—I don't know—an outlet, of some sort. I needed to know I could really  _feel_  something... something real, something meaningful. I never thought... yeah, I never thought I could feel anything that deeply, not—not after what I'd been through, after the war. And I never did, except when I was with you. Not just out on cases, but just... with you. You know? I mean, honestly... I would be the happiest person in the world, Sherlock, if I do fuck-all for the rest of my life but sit here, in this room, with you. Do you know what I mean?"

He searches my eyes. "I think so," he says slowly. (Thank God.) He smiles to himself, looking satisfied. 

A moment passes and he heads to the sofa and collapses onto it. I turn back to my paper, still trying to wrap my head around our conversation. After a minute or two, another strange proposition floats over to me from the sofa: "We should get married." 

Okay, this one  _really_ startles me. I stare at him, bemused. "Married?"

His eyes are closed; he doesn't move. A grunt in confirmation.

"Hold on.  _A minute ago_  you wanted to break up with me, and now you think we should get married?"

He glances over at me and says exasperatedly, "Yes, married. Didn't you hear me?"

A smile slowly breaks out across my face. I shouldn't laugh. I just never expected this, any of this, from him. For someone whose every move is calculated and deliberate, as a romantic he's really rather impulsive. Or maybe that's just the way it comes across to me. He's still a genius and I'm still an idiot. I begin to laugh. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and turns to me. Wild uncertainty is painted on his face once again. This makes me laugh a bit more. 

"What?" he asks. "What's so funny? Don't you want to get married? Isn't that the next logical step?"

"Sherlock," I say, standing up. "Stay here." 

I head over to his (our) room, shaking my head. (Bloody idiot.) When I return, he's sitting up straight, watching me intently. I walk over to the sofa and look down at him, handing him a small maroon box. I say to him softly, laughter still on my lips, "I've already got us rings."

He studies the box, but doesn't open it. He meets my eyes. Amazingly, he still looks puzzled. (I love that I can do this to him.) "I was going to ask you at dinner," I explain, "if you weren't so bloody jumpy all the time."

Finally, a look of understanding comes across his face. "Oh," he says. I giggle. Then: " _How_  did I miss that? I mean the rings, they were obviously hidden somewhere in our room. I never miss anything like that.  _Certainly_ never with you, you're not clever enough to hide anything from me. No offense," he adds quickly, scanning my face to make sure he hasn't angered me. (Unnecessary: I'm beaming.)  

"Recruited a bit of help," I say slyly.

"Oh," he groans. "Mycroft." He assumes the disgusted look he affectionately reserves for his brother. "Should have guessed." He smirks up at me, and I feel a surge of affection for him. Grin still plastered on my face, I place my hands on either side of his head on the sofa, leaning down to kiss him. His soft lips on mine... "Sorry, John," he hums into my mouth between kisses. "Suppose I spoiled your surprise." 

I pull my face away from his to look into his eyes. I search them; he seems to actually be remorseful. "Sherlock," I say gently, "Nothing could have spoiled this." 

Slowly, a smile creeps onto his face. His hands find the back of my head and, as I move to straddle him, he kisses me hard. His tongue, my tongue. Every inch of my body was made for his, and his for mine. My soon-to-be husband: perfection.


End file.
